


What John Doesn't Know

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Mostly POV John though), AU after ASIP, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, M/M, Marriage, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Slight case-related gore, Slight mention of past drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1906983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always been rather mysterious. </p><p>It takes a while for John to realise what is right under his nose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What John Doesn't Know

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Not a smut request, but I'd adore some beautiful, long established Lestrade/Sherlock, where just about everyone knows that they're together except for John. Especially if it takes ages for John to work it out between the insults, drugs busts, and general harassment.

Sherlock was remarkably bad at making proper introductions.

‘Who’s this?’  
  
The DI gave John a look-over. It was a look John knew well, the look of a man who was used to checking for weapons, concealed or otherwise. Assessing potential risk.  
  
‘He’s with me,’ Sherlock said, not looking around.  
  
‘Yeah, but who is he? I can’t just let anyone in because you ask me to.’  
  
Sherlock made an unhelpful grunting noise. He was standing on tip-toe, trying to see upstairs to where the body was. He reminded John of a dog straining forwards after food.  
  
‘John Watson,’ John said, realizing Sherlock wasn’t going to bother. ‘I was an army doctor. Plenty of experience with, uh, violent deaths of various kinds.’  
  
‘Right. Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector.’  
  
They shook hands. His hand was small compared to Lestrades, but John knew his grip was equally firm. John noted his wedding ring, and his even, white teeth. He was a rather handsome man, in fact. The kind his old girlfriend Julie had liked- older looking but sexy. What was the term? Silver fox. Yes.  
  
John zipped up the front of his blue anti-contamination suit and they started upstairs. Sherlock, immune to all rules, wore his own clothes.  
  
‘And how do you know Sherlock?’ Lestrade continued as they walked upstairs. ‘I haven’t seen you about before.’  
  
‘Mutual friend introduced me not even a week ago,’ John explained, raising his voice slightly over the sound of his cane hitting the steps. ‘We’re going to share a flat together, I think.’  
  
‘Oh, thank god,’ Lestrade said, and now gave John a very genuine smile. ‘I can’t imagine anything better than Sherlock living with a doctor. We’ll have to have a chat.’  
  
This was not the exact reaction John had expected, but he let it slide as they arrived at the top floor of the dilapidated building, where the body was. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing here, but he was excited nonetheless.

 

~

 

  
John wasn’t certain if Sherlocks life was always this dramatic, or if it was just his good luck to stumble upon Sherlock when his life was at its most turbulent. If so he certainly wasn’t going to complain. But he might pry a bit. Just a little bit. See what he could find out.  
  
After all, he’d been kidnapped by a dangerous man with sleek cars, attractive assistants and a frankly alarming amount of CCTV manipulation. Prying, after that, was hardly unnatural.  
  
They were sitting by the restaurant window together. Angelo hadn’t been overly friendly towards John, and had given Sherlock a rather stern look before leaving them.  
  
‘So who did I meet?’  
  
He wasn’t sure what kind of answer he was hoping for. Spy? James Bond? Secretly the ruler of a previously unknown country? Really aggressive umbrella salesman with unusual marketing techniques?  
  
‘So what do people have, then, in their real lives?’   
  
So he wasn’t going to answer. Fine.  
  
‘Friends,’ John said patiently. ‘People they know, people they like, people they don’t like. Girlfriends, boyfriends…’  
  
‘Yes, well, as I was saying. Dull.’  
  
Sherlock sniffed slightly, half focused on their conversation and half focused on what was happening outside the window. John wondered if it would be rude to press the issue, but, well- Sherlock was hardly a typical example of social skills.  
  
‘So you don’t have a girlfriend, then?’  
  
‘Girlfriend? No. Not really my area. At all.’  
  
‘Mm.’  
  
John did a slight double take, cursing his permanently non-existent gaydar. He could never, ever tell. With Harry it was like a sixth sense. With John, it was a surprise almost every time.  
  
‘So you’ve got a boyfriend, then?’  
  
‘ _Boyfriend_ … no.’  
  
Sherlock, John realized, was a mighty unhelpful individual when distracted. He felt that he had, perhaps, pushed the issue too far. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t out? Or wasn’t sure? Or maybe he had twelve boyfriends, and was waiting to see how John would react to orgies occurring in the living room?  
  
‘Right.’ John had once been a very smooth talking civilian. It seemed he’d lost that skill. ‘Ok. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’  
  
Sherlock glanced at him, paused, then looked at him properly again.  
  
‘John, um… I think you should know that while I am flattered by your interest in me I’m-’  
  
‘No!’ John interrupted, slightly too loudly, blushing. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.’  
  
Sherlock looked torn between amusement and alarm.   
  
‘I just meant,’ John said, ‘that, whatever your situation it’s… all fine. I wasn’t. I didn’t mean to imply that I’m interested. Sorry.’  
  
‘That’s quite ok,’ Sherlock said, vastly amused now. His gloved hands were pressed together under his chin. Then he saw the taxi out the window, and their conversation was forgotten.  
  
As was Johns cane, left sitting alone by the table.

 

~

 

They returned to 221B, breathless and laughing after _a car chase_ of all things, only to find Mrs Hudson in a state. At once John felt the bubble of happiness inside his chest deflate. Had something gone horribly wrong with the flat?  
  
Mrs Hudson seemed a sensible sort of woman. She wouldn’t be upset over nothing.  
  
They didn’t pause to reassure her, both running upstairs. John had images of blood splatters inside his head, of killers and poison pills and men who control CCTV cameras.  
  
But nothing so gory awaited them inside 221B. It was full of people, almost enough of them to rival the amount of mess. Some John had never seen before, some he had: DI Lestrade sitting comfortably in Sherlocks chair, Anderson and Sally examining the kitchen. Sargent, John remembered, and forensics.   
  
‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock said, frowning at Lestrade. His tone wasn’t angry, exactly, but nor was it pleased.  
  
‘I’m not stupid, Sherlock,’ Lestrade said. ‘Knew you’d find the case.’  
  
‘You can’t just brake into my flat, though.’  
  
‘I don’t see why not,’ Lestrade said. ‘Considering.’  
  
‘Well, perhaps,’ Sherlock admitted, confusing John no end, ‘but why the rest of them? Why _Anderson?’  
_  
‘Oh, I volunteered,’ said Anderson, waving. John thought he could sense suppressed excitement in Andersons posture.  
  
‘Are these _human_ eyes?’ Sally interrupted, holding a jar in her hand with an expression of disgust.  
  
‘Put that back!’ Sherlock demanded.  
  
‘It was in the microwave!’  
  
John made a mental note to clean the microwave.  
  
‘It was an experiment!’ Sherlock shouted back, and Sally scoffed.  
  
‘They’re very efficient,’ Lestrade pointed out. ‘I know what a pain you are about stashing things away, Sherlock. Can’t blame a man for calling in help. Not when it’s my job involved.’  
  
Sherlock made a _harrumphing_ noise. John felt as though he was missing an important part of the conversation, but knew better than to interrupt and ask. Lestrade was watching Sherlock, and Sherlock paced around the room, looking increasingly unhappy.  
  
‘We found Rachel,’ Lestrade said.  
  
‘Who is she?’ Sherlock asked, spinning around.  
  
‘Jennifer Wilsons only daughter.’  
  
‘Her daughter?’ Sherlock seemed unhappy about that. He began to pace again. ‘Why would she write her daughters name? _Why?’  
_  
‘Never mind that,’ Anderson said. ‘We’ve found the case. But you said the case would be with the murderer.’  
  
‘It was,’ Sherlock snapped, ‘until he dumped it and I found it. So stop talking. We need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her, _I_ need to question her.’  
  
‘We can’t,’ Lestrade said. ‘She’s dead.’  
  
‘Excellent!’ Sherlock said, stomping his foot. ‘How, where and why? Is there a connection? There has to be a connection-’  
  
‘No, Sherlock,’ Lestrade said, standing. ‘She’s been dead fourteen years. Was never alive, technically. Stillborn.’  
  
‘No, that’s not right,’ Sherlock said, voice low. Lestrade rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Why would she do that? _Why?’  
_  
‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?’ Sally said, shocked.  
  
‘She didn’t just _think_ about her daughter,’ Sherlock snarled. ‘She scratched her name into the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would’ve hurt.’  
  
‘Well,’ John said, struck by an idea, ‘you said all the victims take the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe… he talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’  
  
‘But that was _ages_ ago!’ Sherlock said, louder and more frustrated than ever. ‘Why would she still-’  
  
 _‘Sherlock,’_ Lestrade interrupted gently. ‘Sherlock.’  
  
‘A… bit not good?’ Sherlock asked.  
  
‘A bit not good, yeah,’ Lestrade said.  
  
Sherlock broke away from Lestrades hand on his shoulder, moving round and round the room again.   
  
‘If you were dying,’ Sherlock said, ‘if you’d been murdered, what would the last thing you’d say?’  
  
‘Please God let me live?’ John suggested, remembering the cries of the men he’d held in his arms in Afghanistan, their ragged last words chocked out under the unforgiving blue of the sky.  
  
‘But if you were clever, really clever…’ Sherlock said, more or less ignoring everybody now, ‘Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers at once, she was clever…’  
  
Mrs Hudson appeared at the doorway, glancing nervously at Sherlock as he charged backwards and forwards.  
  
‘She was trying to tell us something,’ Sherlock said.  
  
‘Isn’t the doorbell working, Sherlock? Your taxi is here.’ Mrs Hudson said. ‘He’s downstairs waiting.’  
  
‘Go away,’ Sherlock said, running his hands through his hair.  
  
‘Oh, they’re making such a mess,’ Mrs Hudson said, looking around the flat. ‘And you’d just started organizing, too…’  
  
‘Shut up!’ Sherlock roared, making Mrs Hudson jump. ‘Shut up, everybody shut up, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, turn the other way. Your face is putting me off.’  
  
‘My face is-?’  
  
‘Everybody still,’ Lestrade demanded. ‘Anderson, turn your back.’  
  
‘Oh, for Gods sake-’  
  
‘Your back, Anderson!’ Lestrade barked. ‘Now!’  
  
‘I need to think,’ Sherlock said, pulling his curls straight in frustration. ‘Think, think, quickly…’  
  
And then he did think quickly, loudly deducing that Rachel, whose phone she used for business instead of a laptop, would be email enabled, meaning that they now had her password (Rachel) and therefore access to the phones GPS. John was impressed, up until the GPS declared that the phone was in 221B.  
  
‘Ok everyone,’ Lestrade called, sounding frustrated. ‘We’re looking for a phone now, as well. Belonged to the victim.’  
  
By this time Sherlock was staring into the distance. John watched him as the search around them increased in earnestness, now they knew the phone was a proper lead, and that its battery life would already be running low.  
  
Even Lestrade joined the hunt now, nimbly examining the flats smaller crevices. John could already sense that it would be him, and not Sherlock, who fixed the place up afterwards.  
  
‘I’m nipping outside,’ Sherlock said to John, making John jump at his sudden proximity. ‘Just a moment of fresh air. Can’t stand Anderson touching my things. I’ll be right back.’  
  
‘Right,’ John said, watching Sherlock hurry downstairs. A gigantic crash came from the kitchen and John winced. He wasn’t sure if he should be helping them or not, in all honesty.  
  
He walked over to the window, wondering if Sherlocks patches had failed and if he was now having a sneaky smoke. Instead he saw Sherlock climb into a cab, which pulled away at once.  
  
‘He just got in a cab,’ John said loudly. ‘Sherlock just got in a cab and left.’  
  
‘He’ll do that,’ Sally said, darkly. ‘Flighty lunatic.’  
  
‘Sally, please,’ Lestrade said.  
  
‘I’m calling his phone,’ John said, holding his own mobile to his ear. ‘But it’s ringing out.’  
  
‘We’re wasting our time,’ Sally said.  
  
‘Probably,’ Lestrade said. ‘If he’s left then we might as well go. Done here, everybody!’  
  
Everyone dropped whatever they were holding (another smash, from the bathroom this time, and John winced again) and started heading downstairs, looking slightly disappointed.  
  
‘Why did he do that?’ John asked Lestrade. ‘Why did he leave?’  
  
‘Search me,’ Lestrade said. ‘He’s got an independent streak, in case you hadn’t already noticed. He’ll manage though.’  
  
‘You put a lot of faith in him,’ John said, cautious.   
  
‘Of course I do,’ Lestrade said, smiling warmly. ‘Of course I do.’

 

~

 

John jammed his gun down the back of his jeans, his heart hammering. He didn’t feel any guilt. After all, the man had been going to kill Sherlock. In fact, what John felt was much closer to pride. It had been a damn fine shot.  
  
He made sure, however, that his shirt and jacket entirely covered the lump the gun made. The area was swarming with police, after all. He’d need to wash his hands, remove the last, tiny, bits of evidence.  
  
Not that he thought he’d serve time even if he were caught. He’d shot a serial killer in defense of his friends life, after all.  
  
~

 

Two days later Sherlock was sprawled in Gregs bed, his bare legs entwined with Gregs equally naked ones. His head was resting on Gregs chest, where he could hear the steady beating of his heart.  
  
‘You shouldn’t have run off like that,’ Greg said, voice low. ‘We’ve had this conversation a million times.’  
  
‘I know,’ Sherlock said. ‘And I’ll say sorry a million times if I need to. I honestly wasn’t going to take the pill.’  
  
‘What if he’s gun had been real, though?’ Greg pressed. ‘What then?’  
  
‘I’d have been more careful, obviously,’ Sherlock said. ‘I knew you’d find me eventually.’  
  
‘The shooter found you first, though.’  
  
‘And whoever it was didn’t shoot me,’ Sherlock said. ‘I don’t see why you’re so worried about the shooter. Man like that must’ve had enemies. One of them could’ve followed him, waiting for a chance. Fancy themselves a vigilante.’  
  
‘Hmm,’ Greg said. His hand ran down Sherlocks back, his fingers gliding over the bumps of Sherlocks vertebrate. ‘And how’s John Watson?’  
  
‘Quiet. Competent. Alarmingly heterosexual. Are you planning on having a manly chat with him about me soon?’  
  
‘I might,’ Greg said, smiling. ‘Why?’  
  
‘I don’t know if I’d bother,’ Sherlock said. ‘You’re going to tell him to keep an eye on me, but he’ll do that on his own. Already trying to feed me up when he thinks I won’t notice.’  
  
‘I like him already,’ Greg said. ‘I was pleased when I heard he was a doctor.’  
  
‘I’m sure you were,’ Sherlock said, yawning. As he drifted to sleep he felt Greg kiss the top of his head.

 

~

 

John was waiting for Sherlock by the water cooler. The paperwork was almost done, but he hadn’t had to write as much as Sherlock, as he’s involvement had been pretty minimal this time.  
  
The harsh fluorescent glow of the lights was giving him a headache. He wanted to be home, eating some toast and listening to Sherlock play the violin.  
  
‘You look dead on your feet,’ Sally said, coming to stand beside him. ‘I know the feeling.’  
  
‘I’ll bet,’ John said. ‘And this light isn’t bringing out my best features.’  
  
She snorted. Her eyes were fixed on him in a curious way. He waited, knowing she would break and ask whatever she wanted to ask soon.  
  
‘How’s it like?’  
  
‘How’s what like?’  
  
‘Living with Sherlock Holmes, obviously,’ Sally said, rolling her eyes. ‘I can’t imagine it’s peaceful. I’ve heard stories. Seen things. Music all hours, body parts, never sleeps.’  
  
‘You’ve described it pretty accurately, so far,’ John said, surprised. ‘It’s not boring, though. Never boring. That’s something.’  
  
‘True.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Can I ask a personal question?’  
  
‘Sure.’  
  
‘You straight? Have a girlfriend, maybe?’  
  
‘Yeah I am,’ John said, more surprised than ever. ‘Though I don’t have a girlfriend, no. Why? Are you offering?’  
  
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Sally said, smiling. ‘I was just checking.’  
  
She turned and vanished before John got a chance to ask _checking_ _on what._

 

~

 

Angelo, too, seemed to feel the need to check on John. John had ordered his and Sherlocks favorites, and Angelo was frowning at him as he clamped down the take-away boxes.  
  
‘You Sherlocks friend, yes? Just good friend?’  
  
‘Yeah, we’re good friends,’ John said. ‘We haven’t known each other very long, I suppose, but we get along well.’  
  
‘Well you be careful,’ he said, pointing a finger at John. ‘He is… irregular, sure? Not typical with his relationships. But he’s loyal.’  
  
‘Ok,’ John said, sensing that to ask questions or make light of this comment would be a very bad idea. ‘I know, I do. Thank you.’  
  
‘Good,’ Angelo said, at last giving John a proper smile. John returned it, taking the food and paying before heading back to 221B.

 

~

 

‘Where are you going?’ John called after Sherlock, as Sherlock wrapped his scarf and started downstairs. ‘Is this a case?’  
  
‘Not a case!’ Sherlock called back. ‘See you tomorrow!’  
  
Tomorrow? John wondered if Sherlock had a secret lover somewhere, or just enjoyed one-night stands. He vanished fairly often, never in disguise. If John didn’t know he’d be caught he might’ve followed him.  
  
It was typical of Sherlock to be a bit mysterious, though. He was always deep inside his own head, rushing off to follow up something he’d thought of, sentences unfinished.   


 

~

 

The new case was gory even by Sherlocks standards. Forensics was still trying to work out exactly how many bodies were involved, though going just from the amount of teeth present, John estimated at least four.  
  
Anderson looked pale, and Sally had said almost nothing when they’d arrived, just greeted them by name and then pointed. Everybody was desperate for the case to be over.  
  
‘Brutal,’ Sherlock said, eyes sharp and fascinated. ‘Typically brute force and mess combined equals incompetence, desperation, spur-of-the-moment violence. This, though, this is deliberately horrendous. It’ll take a while to work out who these people even are…’  
  
‘We’re working on it,’ Lestrade said, his eyes on Sherlock instead of the mass of human flesh they were all trying to avoid stepping in. ‘Got experts on it now. Any idea… of anything? Anything at all, frankly.’  
  
‘They weren’t killed here but moved here in bags and dumped. Look inside garbage bags nearby, talk to the neighbors in case they saw anything. And work out why this house, when the street was so well-lit, when there’s a totally unoccupied one just down the street. As for the location of the actual murders? Butchers, abattoirs… basically anywhere with a meat grinder.’  
  
‘Well, couldn’t imagine this was done with a single blender,’ John said, holding his nose. The smell was highly unpleasant. ‘Do we have to stay in here while we talk?’  
  
‘No,’ Lestrade said, ‘fuck no. Outside, unless you’re forensics.’  
  
He and Sherlock led the way outside, John following. His shorter legs required him to jump over puddles of gore that Sherlock and Lestrade could simply step over.  
  
When he caught up (and, oh, but the fresh air was beautiful) he found Sherlock with his arm around Gregs shoulders. Greg was breathing hard, his lips pressed together as if holding in vomit. Sherlocks voice was low and soothing.  
  
John stood a few paces away, giving Lestrade a moment of privacy as he inhaled. It was odd, seeing Sherlock actually comfort somebody. He had tried to comfort John after John had been locked inside a shipping contained for half an hour once, and hadn’t been very good at it.  
  
Lestrade made a loud, disgusted sound, giving up on his professionalism altogether. It seemed to help, though. He started to move towards his car, where the details of the property were written down. John followed.

 

~

 

‘Hey, Sherlock,’ John said, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder and nodding subtly towards the woman at the bar. ‘Would she be interested, if I asked?’  
  
‘You want me to deduce if somebody will date you?’  
  
‘Well,’ John said, flushing, knowing he would’ve have asked without the beer he’d drunk first, ‘why not? You’ve got this skill, I’m single. You could probably get anybody in the room, couldn’t you, if you knew how to deduce what they all wanted…’  
  
‘True,’ Sherlock said, but he sounded disinterested. ‘Not something that interests me, though. Obviously I don’t do one night stands.’  
  
Obviously.  
  
‘Well,’ John pressed, ‘would she?’  
  
She had mid-length blonde hair, a plush looking bottom and a nose he wasn’t ashamed to think of as cute. The man they were following had been a no-show, and it wasn’t likely he’d ever be in a pub with Sherlock outside of a case. Why not take advantage?  
  
‘I think she would,’ Sherlock said, sighing, running his eyes over the woman. ‘I never made picking up women my area of expertise, but I think the odds are you’d be lucky.’  
  
‘Thanks,’ John said, finishing the last of his beer and grinning. ‘You’re a good man.’  
  
‘Yes, yes,’ Sherlock said, unimpressed. ‘Go and get laid.’  
  
‘You could get laid too,’ John said, suddenly almost guilty for ditching Sherlock. ‘I don’t want to just dump you and run off.’  
  
‘An excellent idea,’ Sherlock said, perking up. ‘I’ll see you later.’  
  
He stood and, instead of hunting through the pub for some attractive man, left to call a taxi. John was puzzled for a few moments, then shrugged, turning towards the blonde woman at the bar.

 

~

 

Sherlock had his arms wrapped around Gregs waist, his head resting on Gregs shoulder as Greg flipped pancakes. Morning sunshine was pouring through the window onto their faces.  
  
‘You’re a real pest, Sherlock,’ Greg said without heat. ‘How am I meant to cook this with you going all octopus on me?’  
  
‘Carefully, that’s how,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’m very grateful, you know.’  
  
‘What? For my awful cooking?’  
  
‘Not just that,’ Sherlock said, his arms tightening. ‘John picked up a woman at a bar last night, and it occurred to me again how, well, tolerant you are.’  
  
‘Tolerant?’  
  
Greg turned to look at him, eyebrows drawn close together. Sherlock was nearly cross-eyed trying to keep him in view without moving his head away. He felt that he’d somehow made a mistake, in using the world tolerant.  
  
‘I don’t tolerate you, Sherlock. I love you. There is a big sodding difference.’  
  
‘Oh, I know that,’ Sherlock said. ‘But our arrangement is highly irregular. Many people may have become intolerant over time. You didn’t.’  
  
‘No, I didn’t,’ Greg said, still sounding  a little grumpy, ‘because I didn’t fall out of love with you, you great twat.’  
  
‘I love you too,’ Sherlock said, kissing him.

 

~

 

Sherlock was out when Mycroft arrived, meaning John was left with the unenviable task of entertaining him until Sherlocks return.  
  
Uncomfortable under the silent, interested gaze of the elder Holmes, John made tea and brought out their least fattening biscuits, passing them over to Mycroft on one of their better plates.  
  
Something about Mycroft always rubbed him up the wrong way, and it wasn’t only the expensive suits and the power complex, either.  
  
‘So good to see how you’ve settled in,’ Mycroft said, smiling. ‘I imagine Sherlock has been keeping you busy.’  
  
‘You read my blog,’ John said, ‘I know you know we’ve been busy.’  
  
‘Indeed,’ Mycroft said, sipping at his tea. ‘Do you know where Sherlock is right now?’  
  
‘Nope.’  
  
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, the sounds of Baker Street rising up to fill up the space that ought to have been filled by conversation. John tried not to look too openly hostile.   
  
‘I suppose you see a fair bit of Greg Lestrade?’  
  
‘Oh, yeah,’ John said. ‘He pops round pretty often, which I’m sure you know. Gives us cases quite often, which you also know. He and I are going for pints tomorrow night, as you also know.’  
  
‘Indeed,’ Mycroft said again, eyebrows raised. John felt his stomach contract uncomfortably, but said nothing, refusing to be cowed.

 

~

 

They were a few pints in. They were now on first name terms. John felt pleasingly tipsy, and going from the flush on Gregss face, he was feeling the same way. The bar was just quiet enough to talk without shouting, and the beer good.   
  
‘…was the best damn thing I’d ever seen,’ Greg finished. ‘Covered in mud, covered.’  
  
‘I wish I’d seen this,’ John said, snorting with laughter. ‘Was he wearing one of those expensive suits?’  
  
‘Yeah,’ Greg said, wiping moisture from his eye. ‘Yeah, he was. Bless him.’  
  
The unhesitating _bless him_ and the accompanying smile urged John on. He felt that Greg wouldn’t mind answering a few basic questions about Sherlock the ever mysterious, after all.  
  
‘So was that when you met?’ John asked. ‘I don’t even know how long you’ve known each other.’  
  
‘Five years,’ Greg said. ‘Bout five and half now, actually. Five and a quarter. Nothing, you know, for that first year... Just the occasional case while he was getting clean. Getting his help on quite a few cold cases. Two years in it all started, and by the end of the third, well-’  
  
He held up his ring finger, the gold band there shining. John felt that he must have misheard, or else worded his question very poorly.  
  
‘No,’ he said, ‘I mean, how long have you known Sherlock, not your wife.’  
  
‘My wife?’ Greg looked flabbergasted. ‘John, I’m talking about Sherlock.’  
  
‘But- what?’ John wondered if he had somehow downed five shots of vodka in a row without noticing. He felt very, very confused. ‘I asked how long you’d known Sherlock and you started talking about your marriage.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Greg said slowly, as if speaking to somebody hard of hearing. ‘That would be because I’m married to Sherlock.’  
  
‘Oh,’ John said, stunned. ‘Holy fuck. _Fuck._ How did I never noticed this? No wonder Sherlock thinks I’m dim. Christ.’  
  
‘Did Sherlock never say?’  
  
‘Not exactly,’ John said, looking frantically back into his memory. ‘Looking back, actually, I can see I didn’t give him much of a chance when we first met. And after that I just… assumed… I don’t know what I assumed. Jesus.’  
  
‘He’s used to not talking about it,’ Greg said, shrugging a little. ‘We work together, have basically all the same friends.’  
  
‘But he doesn’t live with you!’ John said. ‘And I don’t see him wearing a ring!’  
  
‘He couldn’t endure living with someone he was sleeping with,’ Greg said. ‘It was one of the first things we ever established. Too much intimacy. Overloaded him. He stays the night pretty often, though. Least ten times a month usually. And, well… I’m a cop, I’ve got enemies, and Sherlocks enemies are off the scale crazy. Frankly I don’t like the idea of somebody thinking they could burn the place down, two birds with one stone.’  
  
‘That’s a fair point,’ John said, frowning. ‘He gets some insane hate mail, Sherlock does. Though you’d obviously know that. But the rings?’  
  
‘He’s a chemist, John, he doesn’t want to damage it. Mostly he wears it on a chain around his neck.’  
  
‘I’ve never seen what was on the end of that chain,’ John said, thinking of the thin silver chin that was always tucked away nearly under whatever Sherlock was wearing. ‘You must think I’m half-blind, really.’  
  
‘Not at all,’ Greg said, laughing. ‘It happens. You haven’t known either of us a full year yet, even, and Sherlock does like to be unhelpfully mysterious.’  
  
‘Understatement of a century,’ John said. ‘I’m lucky I even found out he wasn’t straight, from the sound of things. This explains so much. Why Sally was asking if I was straight when I moved in, why Angelo was all hostile at first…’  
  
‘He probably thought you were Sherlocks bit on the side,’ Greg said, amused.  
  
‘Yeah,’ John said. ‘The other man! Fucking hell.’  
  
‘I’ve got to thank you for moving in,’ Greg said, genuine affection in his voice. ‘Not anybody could’ve done it. And it helps my stress levels, knowing there’s a doctor nearby Sherlock at all times.’  
  
‘I’ll bet it does,’ John said, taking a sip of his beer.   
  
‘Sorry it’s caused you occasional awkwardness, though.’  
  
‘Not your fault. Not even all my fault,’ John said. ‘We can give Sherlock at least some of the blame.’  
  
‘Do you want to go back to 221B?’ Greg said. ‘Confront him? Look at the wedding photos?’  
  
‘Wedding photos! Ok, I’m sold.’

 

~

 

John sat between Sherlock and Lestrade as they poured over the wedding photos. They had been in a blue book tucked casually into the bookshelf.  
  
‘It was only small,’ Greg said. ‘Obviously. Didn’t want any fuss really.’  
  
‘His mother wanted fuss,’ Sherlock sniffed. ‘We had to talk her down.’  
  
‘That’s Molly, there, in the background,’ Greg said, pointing at Molly, who had much shorter hair and was wearing a light purple dress. ‘You won’t believe it, but she used to have the biggest crush on Sherlock.’  
  
‘Oh, don’t remind me,’ Sherlock groaned. ‘It was awful, John. Every time I turned up at the morgue she’d be talking about coffee-’  
  
‘-putting on lipstick-’  
  
‘I’d forgotten about the lipstick incident,’ Sherlock laughed.   
  
‘It’s so hard to imagine her having a crush on you, though,’ John said. ‘She seems to happy with Phillip, and he’s _nothing_ like you.’  
  
‘But don’t we look wonderful,’ Sherlock said, turning the page to show a photo of himself and Greg standing side by side in matching suits. ‘Gerg wouldn’t let me design the cake.’  
  
‘It was morbid, what he wanted,’ Greg said in a low tone to John.  
  
‘It was not morbid, it was romantic,’ Sherlock said, scandalized. ‘It was a re-creation of the crime scene where we met.’  
  
‘Which might’ve been romantic had it not been for the fact that the victim had been-’  
  
‘I wasn’t going to suggest we put a little decapitated doll on top the cake, Greg,’ Sherlock said.   
  
‘Yes you were, though, I found you designing a miniature version of the blood splatter on a napkin.’  
  
‘Well…’ Sherlock trailed off, pink in the face. ‘I think it could’ve been romantic.’

 

  
~

 

Some time later John was drinking tea in the kitchen. Greg and Sherlock had finished with the wedding album and were now reminiscing about an old case they’d worked on.  
  
Watching them, John was amazed that he hadn’t realized sooner. Sherlocks knee and shoulder pressed against Gregs, and his face crumpled up every time he smiled, his eyes sparkling. And Greg look besotted, years younger and lit up by Sherlock, who was reenacting an inept witness with vigor.   
  
As he watched, Lestrade reached inside Sherlocks shirt, finding the chain which held his wedding ring. He brought it up to examine, peering through it at Sherlock, who stuck out his tongue.  
  
Greg leaned forwards and kissed him. It was not a brief peck, either, but an open-mouth meeting of lips and tongue, his hand reaching up to cup the side of Sherlocks face. Smiling, John slipped upstairs, giving them their privacy.

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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